Let's talk about shopping.

Asher, creating a fat mii (character for the wii): "Mom, is this how fat you are?" I was terrified to turn around and see just HOW fat he had made me. And then I realized, again, that my perception of my appearance is so much different than what I really am.

This is not me. Although it could be if I wore smaller jeans. (But I won't. You can thank me later.)

In reality I pull on a pair of pants every morning for work that I never would have dreamed of fitting in. I could literally fit two of the old me inside them. In my mind, I still look pretty awesome. Not amazing, but pretty good. And that's enough for me most of the time. 

This morning reminded me that I, too, have a problem with seeing myself as I really am. This denial has kept me from killing myself over my weight gain, but it's also kept me from doing what needs to be done to stay healthy. Tonight I went to the grocery store and bought two carts full of healthy food, again. I'm going to start working out and eating healthier, again. Because the best I can do is keep trying, right? I haven't been able to get into it like I used to, and that has been seriously discouraging, but I will keep starting over until it sticks because I refuse to spend my life fat like Asher's mii. 

At least once a week a man tries on a pair of pants and leaves the fitting room with an angry look on his face. I say, "Did they work for you?" and he says something like, "No. These are NOT thirty-fours. I ALWAYS wear a thirty-four, and these are not thirty-fours. They are sized wrong." I try to sound sympathetic, but is this guy serious? He thinks the manufacturer more likely sized the jeans incorrectly than he just gained a few pounds? 

Other times I see women go into the fitting room with clothes two sizes too small for them, then they come out and say, "None of them worked." It's so hard for me not to say, "You'll be so much happier if you try the next section!" but of course I can't, so I just smile and say "OK". 

As always, I'm going to use my blog to say what I wish I could say. 

First rule of shopping (according to me!) is this: SHOP ALL DEPARTMENTS! 

I never knew this before I started this job, but there are women who come to the fitting room with shirts from the Misses section, Juniors, Mens, Maternity, Plus sizes, even Girls sizes. 

Did you know kids' sizes 18-20 are the same size as Juniors and Young Men's size small? They totally are. Grown women who need petite sizes can shop the bigger girls' size clothes because the only real difference is length. 

Maternity clothes are not like they used to be. Most maternity shirts these days are just slightly roomier than Misses shirts, but without looking at the tag I can't tell the difference! Sometimes maternity clothes are just cuter than the regular clothes, and non-pregnant women buy them more often than you would think. 

Those guys who claim the clothes are "sized wrong" are missing two important factors: different brands will make sizes a little bit different, and Young Men's vs. Men's. At our store the YM and the Men's clothes are on the same rack, all mixed together. (This brings up another good point: TRY EVERYTHING ON before you buy! I KNOW the fitting room process is a giant pain in the butt, but it really is the only way to be happy with what you bring home.) Young Men's shirts are more fitted, more upper-body focused. They are a little bit shorter than their Men's counterparts. Young Men's jeans are different than Men's jeans, by a lot. Every single time a man brings me jeans that were "sized wrong," when I check the tag I find that they are Young Men's denim. 

Ok, now I need to talk to the women. I know how you feel. Taking the leap from the Juniors section to the Misses can be painful, especially if you never had to until after you had a baby. It just plain makes you feel old. I am here to tell you DON'T FEAR THE MISSES SECTION! Yes, half the stuff over there is so hideous you wouldn't even gift it to your grandmother, but hidden among the tie-dye and the floral-bedazzle-zebra-print, there are treasures. We get some Misses tops and Juniors tops that are absolutely identical. The ONLY difference between the Junior section and the Misses section is the same thing we talked about for the men: slightly more focus on the top, more fitted on the bottom. If you're struggling to fit into a size large or extra large in Juniors, you'll fit nicely into a Misses medium or large. 

When we first opened the store in July, I had to check every single tag to know where to file the tops, but at this point I know by just glancing at them because Misses tops have straighter lines, less intentional curves. Smoother lines aren't bad, girls. I can't even tell you how many times I've wanted to say to a woman, "You have a WOMAN's body now. Shop in the Misses department; you'll look so much better!" (There's more than just Mom Jeans over there! Seriously cute things hiding in that dept.) Too many women are leaving the store depressed because Junior jeans/tops don't look good on them anymore. There is no shame in moving on to the adult section, I promise. Junior clothes are made with the intent to fit the teenage body.  

(Note to my sisters: I know you're laughing at me right now. I'm a bit late to the game, but that's why this post exists. I am not not the only one!)

One last thing... the other day I told someone at work what size jeans I wear. "You are NOT that big!" she said. "I will NOT go beyond a size 11. I don't care, I will squeeze my butt into it. I will NOT be a thirteen." I completely understand this feeling, and luckily this girl looks good in her size 11 clothes, so she's doing just fine. But there are other people I won't mention who try too hard to fit into clothes that are too small for them, just because they don't want to acknowledge what size they really are. If you are that girl, I promise you look a thousand times better in your real size! And don't forget that jeans shrink in the wash... whatever they look like in the store will be even tighter after that first wash. 

Well, that's my two cents. Maybe it's more than two cents, I don't know, but there you have it. ;) Some day we'll go over dresses... if I don't get in too much trouble for what I've already said! If you haven't had enough about the misery of the shopping experience, you should check out my new favorite blog post: Jeans: A Loathe Affair at Kvetch Mom. Laughed so hard. I think we can all relate to this!

btw, I'm linked up over at yeah write today! Go check it out and add your blog. :) 

Admittedly, I might be biased...

...but I'm pretty sure that was the best possible way I could have spent two hours of today. (Granted, I don't have to pay my brother, but I would if he was not my brother, because the results are awesome.)

Yeah. This is my son.

Have any of you ever experienced this? We were in my brother's studio, and he's taking pictures of my kids... they are cute, but they could have used a haircut and they aren't being as expressive as I had hoped. My heart is starting to sink... I'm starting to realize we will have to re-shoot this, and I'm disappointed because I realllllly wanted these pics NOW. I'm getting frustrated with my kids for not being as happy as I wanted them to be, for forcing smiles and not looking like their gorgeous, natural selves. The photographer (in this case my brother) didn't do as many poses as I wanted, we didn't get to use the background I wanted.... etc. etc. etc. Then the photo shoot is over (not because we ran out of time, but because the kids have lost interest and are running away), and I'm thinking all hope is lost.

Then we get to preview the files, pick our favorites... and after a long process of rating the pics, we have narrowed it down to just ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN favorites. Oops. Turns out the shoot went great, there are too many to choose from, and I'm going crazy waiting for the pictures because I can't wait to show you all how cute my kids are!

Yep. It was like that. I can't wait to show you all how cute my kids are!!!!


P.S. Do you have Pinterest? (If you don't, we need to talk.) If you do, want to be a doll and give Way Too Much Aubrey some love on there?

Way Too Much Aubrey

Click the link under the picture for your chance to spread the love around. I am having a blast meeting new people through this blog and would love to get a wider audience. If you can, pass it along, will ya? :) Thanks!

Tales From the Hole: Fitting Room Etiquette

Listen, I'm fully aware that I'm being paid to stand in The Hole and put your clothes away. I understand this. In the course of 7 months in The Hole, I have experienced exactly TWO people who appear to feel downright guilty about giving me clothes to put away. This is not necessary, as I am, in fact, paid to do just that.

However... I do think it's possible to appreciate this fact and treat it with a small sliver of respect. With this in mind, I bring you my own personal* brand of Fitting Room Etiquette.

(*Keep in mind that I do not work in one of those fancy-shmancy stores you may be accustomed to shopping in; I only claim to understand my own territory. But I figure if you're a snob who buys ridiculously expensive clothing, you aren't fixated on my blog. Just a rude assumption I make about my beloved followers.)

First off, it's OK to smile at me. I don't have Leprosy.

As you can see, I have two giant clothing racks where I hang the clothes back up after you take them off. Clearly this means I will need the HANGERS you found those clothes on, in order to HANG them back up. Handing me a pile of clothes sans hangers doesn't make a lot of sense, does it? ("I just found these, they didn't have hangers" is a lie. Just so you know, you and I BOTH know that. Not a single item of clothing is presented in this store without a hanger.)

Oh, and mumbling "I left the hangers in there" doesn't help much either. 1st, do you think I didn't notice these clothes were handed over in a heap? 'Cause I did, so no need to state the obvious. 2nd, acknowledging that you left the hangers in the dressing room tells me you KNOW you should have brought them out, you just simply do not care. This is immeasurably irritating.

I have been to stores where they don't employ a fitting room attendant. These fitting rooms are covered in already-tried-on clothes and garbage. In case you hadn't noticed, there was NOTHING in that room when you entered, meaning we are not one of those stores, so it would be decent of you to leave it that way.

This next one applies to everyone, of course, but ESPECIALLY to the men. What is it about being a man that makes you feel like dumping a pile of half-inside-out pants in my left arm and a pile of hangers in my right arm is a good idea? I am the mother of three boys, but you, last time I checked, were not one of them. I'm not your mother; I don't want to stick my arm down the pant leg you were just wearing to turn it right-side-out. Your residual sweat isn't exactly my idea of a good time. Mm-k?

One last thing about the hangers... If on your way out of the fitting room, I ask you, "Can I put those away for you?" don't say, "Oh, I know where they go," and then leave them some random place in the store for me to pick up later. I'm asking to do it for a reason, not because I think it's fun acting as your servant.

Now that we've got that out of the way, let's move on to common courtesy.

There are a few different kinds of shoppers I come in contact with.

Shopper #1: Rich chick.
Rich chick is a very specific breed of shopper. She's approximately thirty-nine, comes in frequently (usually on Friday, when her husband has received his paycheck), shops exclusively in the "designer" section, and buys ridiculously frivolous things she doesn't necessarily need. Her clothes tend to have far too many bedazzled-looking parts to them, and her purse is just ugly enough to prove to me it's also a designer brand. She clip-clops up to the fitting room in her sky-high heels (I can hear her a mile away, so I prepare myself), and barks a number at me. About the same time she barks "seven" at me, I am saying, "Hi!" She looks past me, holds out her hand, and impatiently waits for me to hand her a number card. Clip-clopping into the fitting room, she takes a sip of her latte and disappears.
When Rich Chick is finished in the FR, she has without a doubt left the following items in the room for me to fetch: the number I gave her indicating how many items of clothing she took in with her (for some reason she hasn't been able to deduce what the purpose of that card might be), at LEAST one empty hanger, a tag or two she tore off because she didn't like the look of the tag in the mirror, and the empty Starbucks cup. Guar-an-teed.

Last week Random Rich Chick actually handed me a used tissue to throw away for her along with her clothes. She didn't look me in the eye ONCE as she handed me twelve items of clothing and one nasty, flu-ridden tissue. That's right, her garbage. 

I don't need to spell out the other ones for you, just know that a few of them are: Old Lady, Pre-Teen, Teenager with Unruly Parent, and Extremely Religious Girl Who's Too Shy To Try on Lingerie but Does it Anyway.

Oh, and Guys. (They're all pretty much the same when it comes to trying on clothes: dreading it.)


Remember when you were a pre-teen and thought it was fun to go try on prom dresses or something very grown-up with your friends? Well, shame on you. And shame on me. And shame on my friends who did that with me! It turns out we are a store's worst nightmare. Pre-teen girls shop in absolutely every section of the store, picking up absolutely everything that catches their little pre-teen eye, and then they giggle all the way to the fitting room, where they create chaos and an unbearable amount of noise for an unbearable amount of time. After thirty agonizing minutes of listening to them "Ew!" and "Ah!" over each thing they've tried, they come out of the dressing room with EVERY SINGLE ITEM ON THE WRONG HANGER. Inside out, upside down, dresses on pant hangers, pants on dress hangers, you name it... they're giving it to me. It's a nightmare. By the time they finally leave, I am left with half an hour of work just to put their clothes on their rightful hangers with matching size nubs.

Seriously, though, it's not just the pre-teens who are bringing me clothes in this condition. Why would you even bother to hang the clothes at all if you were just going to hang them INSIDE-OUT? I don't understand this at all. Absolutely baffles me.

That's nothin' compared to the woman who let her little kid lock every single fitting room door and then left. I spent the rest of my shift wiggling under FR doors to unlock them all and came home looking like I'd been working at a construction zone, not a clothing store.

We won't even get into the bathroom etiquette today. I'll just say this: I do not want to know WHY you need to use the restroom. I would be happy to press the restroom button for you, but under no circumstances do I want a play-by-play or back-story about how and why you ended up there! People frequently (women, mostly) approach the restroom with panic on their faces, announcing something like, "Too much coffee!" or "Oh Lordy, shouldn't have had all that water!" A woman once told me "I had diarrhea in my pants; I just need to go change my underpants." WTF, lady? TMI! Same goes for telling me on your way out, "It smells really bad in there. You might want to use some air freshener or something." What do they think goes on in there that should smell like sunshine and rainbows? People poop in there, for heaven sake.

One last thing before I End Rant: The fitting room attendant is not a babysitter. She doesn't get paid as well as a nanny, therefore you should not leave your infant son in her care while you go to the bathroom. Besides the legal aspects, WTF are you thinking asking me to watch your child while you pee?


End rant.


This post was mentioned in another fabulous post about retail respect, which you can find here. 

Perceptional Reality Photography & how cute my nieces/nephew are!

 Hey, remember my brother Jon?

(this guy)

 He's the one with the super gorgeous blonde kids & ridiculously difficult divorce. You know... he took these pictures:

...and this one...

Anyway, I just wanted to share with you the gorgeous new pictures of my nieces and nephew he took this weekend. We are so lucky to have them back in Utah where we can see them sometimes! Aren't they just precious?!

I can't wait for the shoot we're doing this week of my kids... don't worry, I'll show those off too. ;)

And just in case you are dying to get some pics of your own, go ahead and friend him on facebook or twitter. (He also does weddings and other events, not just portraits.)

example

example

Mom needs a break

There are three kinds of moms:

 

You all know one. She's Super-Mom. She looks shocked when you say, "I'm leaving the kids with my mother-in-law while I go on a little vacation," and then explains that she hasn't spent a day away from her children since she birthed them.  

*

There's this other kind of mom. She can be any age, but she's the one who never sees her kids, and it's not because she's working hard... she's just not interested in being a mother, or is still just emotionally a kid herself. She's the mom who has a babysitter three times a week and looks shocked when you say, "I can't; I have kids." I will admit, I have been this mom before. Thankfully that's a phase for me, not who I am. 

*

Then there's that third kind of mom. She works hard, but every once in a while she finds herself yelling a few too many times over issues which are a little too small. Her house isn't perfect, but her kids love her, and at the end of the week she can't really remember her own name. She finally realizes why she's so frazzled: she needs a break. This kind of  mom can spend the majority of time with her family, job, responsibilities... but she's also willing to drop the kids off with her sister and take some "me" time. 

I think we all know I'm not the Super-Mom type, and I've already admitted to having Selfish-Mom tendencies, but these days I think I can confidently say that I fall in the Moderate-Mom category. I believe in taking time to myself. I believe in being extremely involved in my kids' lives. I believe in balance between the two.

Long story short, my last blog post was about going out to a club, and today I am telling you about my mini-vaca this weekend to Mesquite, Nevada. I know this may qualify me as Selfish-Mom, but it's really not normal for me to be going away so much, so if that's the conclusion you've come to, I respectfully disagree with you. :)

Am I the only one who feels like they need a vacation to recover from their vacation? After a trip (no matter how small), I always feel like I need a week to rest. This time isn't like that, and I'll tell you why.

Because I...

...spent two and a half days with good people who didn't ask a thing of me. Not ONE.SINGLE.THING. was required of me all weekend long. 

...lounged on a couch in a fancy condo that is, by the way, by far nicer than my own apartment.

...had good conversation, good food, good drinks, and made good memories. 

...met new, open-minded, hilarious friends.

...swam in a heated pool with sun on my back. 

...sat in a hot tub for hours without having to say, "No, don't pee in the pool" or "don't drown your brother" even once!

 ...slept in a bed better than my own. Not a single small person woke me up asking for potty or ba-ba, and I woke up whenever my brain decided to greet the day. Heaven? Yes, I think so.

...drove six hours each way, and didn't fight with Husband even ONCE. That's true love, baby! 

...missed my kids so bad it hurt. 

...came home to hugs and kisses and little boys who had an amazing weekend with their grandma. 

Is the house a mess? Yes. Do I go back to work in the morning? Yes. But I had such an incredible weekend relaxing with friends that I don't mind a bit.

Wait.. when did I become the old lady in the club?

Saturday night was my friend/coworker Jaime's birthday party at Circle Lounge in Salt Lake. First off, I was deceived by the name. I thought "lounge" meant that there might be a place to sit. FYI, this was not the case.

Now, I haven't been to a club/bar/lounge in at least a year and a half, and I haven't been legitimately single for seven years. It's not exactly my scene. Husband came with me (thank God!) and he promised not to drink so he could drive. I got all dressed up, even bought a new shirt for the event (SO cute, wish I'd gotten a picture. Next time.)


While we were looking for a parking space (Downtown Salt Lake City on a Saturday night? Forget it) I told Husband to just give up and pay for parking.

"No," he said, "There's always someone leaving."

I said, "It's only ten thirty! No one is going to leave a club at ten thirty."

"Just wait," he said, looking at me sideways. "Some girl's boyfriend will kiss her best friend and she'll run out of there crying, opening up one of these spots."

So we circled the block three or four times until, sure enough, a couple of girls were leaving, opening up the perfect parking spot. In we went,


Leaving the car Husband said, "Do you need me to hold your ID in my wallet?" I said, "No, I'm going to take my purse inside." He looked at me crazy and I added, "For lipstick and wallet and stuff."

Thus making me the Old Lady in the club. It hadn't occurred to me that I would already be one of the oldest people there, but in addition to that it was standing (bumping) room only. Guess how convenient it was to have my purse in there? Yeah. I felt like I was carrying a diaper bag around all night. Even though I was more covered-up than every girl there, I felt like everyone could practically SEE my c-section scars like a label on my forehead: "I'M A MOM; I SHOULDN'T BE HERE."

Before we left the house, Husband asked me, "Is it going to be a meat market?"
I thought, isn't that what clubbing is all about? Aren't they all that way?

This was, by definition, a MEAT MARKET. It was like men were walking up, examining the livestock, and leading the drunk women away to be slaughtered. (Yes, I'm aware this makes me sound even OLDER. I don't care; that's what it is.) I said (yelled) to Husband, "every guy here looks exactly the same, except some of them are blond." He replied perfectly with, "I blame Jersey Shore."  YES. Exactly.

After some time and a few of my friends arrived, I got a bit more comfortable, but upon entering the women's restroom, I found a whole new arena. There were at least eight girls in a 2-stall bathroom, all with hair bigger than Snookie. They looked like real-life Bratz dolls.

Picture credit

 I heard a conversation like this:

"Yeah! He shoved me, so I punched him in the face!"
"OMG"
"I know, right?! I am not putting up with that, so I just punched him right in the face." 
"You did the right thing."
"I know. Let's go find him." 

Another conversation, while washing my hands (couldn't possibly get clean enough after touching those doors), "Ok girls, I'm ready. Let's go find us some American men cause we are hot Mexican ladies."

Seriously. I'm not making this stuff up.

One more trip to the bathroom, much later in the night, and this is my favorite:

"No, really, he totally did that to me."
"Oh yeah? Well, my BEST friend slept with MY BOYFRIEND, while we were together. Take THAT!"
Yes, folks, this was a competition for trashiest experience with a man. She repeated that sentence several times before I escaped.

And by escaped, I mean forced my way back through the crowd of nearly-naked women and overly-gelled men. I watched guys try to grab boobs and reach hands into girls' dresses (if you can call them dresses), and I watched women throw themselves at men.

I heard a group of guys outside smoking; one guy said, "I know, like when I see a girl fall, and I'm all, 'you're drunk'!" Laughter. This same guy inevitably took one of those drunk girls home and won't ever talk to her again.

I don't think I have ever been so grateful to have my husband's hand to hold. He was able to lead me through crowds, help me pretend I could dance, and drive my friend Monica home safely when she was definitely unable to do so herself. He gave me Tylenol for my massive headache (do you know how LOUD those places are?!) and listened to me go on and on about the girls I saw in the bathroom.

I ended the night by pulling off my hooker-ish boots and telling Husband, "Please don't ever let me be single again. It's just awful."

Happy Valentine's Day, friends! 

Girls Are Icky & True Love

Josh: "Mom, my teacher says we are having a Valentine party, and I can bring valentine cards. Most people are bringing them, but I don't want to bring any."

Me: "What? Why not?"

Josh: "I just don't."

Me: "Well, you know, you don't have to write everyone's name on them. You could just pick out some cool ones at the store and drop one in each person's box. Don't even have to label them."

Josh: "So... does that mean I don't have to put MY name on them either?"

Me: "I guess so."

Josh: "Ok, then. I'll bring them."

 ****

Husband: "Honey! I just thought of the most EPIC way to troll you!"

Me: "Can't wait to hear."

Husband: "FAKING Alzheimer's when we're old."

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what I have to look forward to.

Misunderstanding each other since 2003

You know how Meg Ryan (well, her character in You’ve Got Mail) could never think of the right thing to say at the right moment? She explains how in the heat of an argument, she just stands there in stunned silence, only realizing later what she could/should have said. Growing up I was more of a Joe from Fox Books kind of thinker, the kind who could spit back anything you threw at me, but with a little more sting to it, only realizing later that I shouldn’t have said it. (I probably should have put my foot in my mouth and left it there my entire school career - people would have liked me better.)

These days I’m the sit in silence and seethe type. 

I don’t do a lot of blogging about my relationship, as it tends to be too personal to really share. I’ve kept no secret about our rocky relationship, but I also don’t use it as blog fodder. (Although I do threaten to use it as such pretty regularly.) 

Number one, I don’t want to unintentionally hurt Husband. Every once in a while he gets a crazy idea to read Way Too Much Aubrey, and I just simply don’t want to fight about what’s featured here. 

Number two, he is a professional, and I don’t want to risk his future for the sake of a funny story. 

Number three, our relationship tends to be less than humorous, more on the side of emotionally exhausting, so this is one of my few places to escape all that, as opposed to diving more deeply into it. 

That said, I spend a significant amount of time wondering if I am doing a disservice to the blogging community by keeping this wealth of marital knowledge to myself (ha, ha). 

What’s better to teach than an example of what not to do? And it’s not like I’m ever going to Forrest Gump the subject… I will never come to a point where “that’s all I have to say about that”, so this blog could potentially live forever!

The details don’t matter much, but this morning Husband and I got in an extremely common (for us) argument about music/media. This is a subject we are seriously divided over, and it’s a gap that is simply never going to be bridged. As a married couple this isn’t really a big problem, but as parents… well, I don’t need to explain it to you. It makes you see things differently.

Like I said, the details aren’t important, but at some point in the (ok, every) conversation Husband insists that I explain WHY I feel a certain way. When I can’t come up with a response, this feels like a victory to him. Obviously my inability to explain my point of view proves that my point is invalid, therefore obviously stating that he is, in fact, right.

I wish I could find a way to explain that it isn’t that I have no reasoning. It’s more the desperate feeling of knowing we will never understand each other that keeps me in stunned silence.

Being the mom: Breakfast with boys

Feeling extra friendly this morning, upon waking I announced, "I'm going to make you some cinnamon rolls!"

Max, being the obstinate 2-year-old he is lately, immediately threw a fit. "No! No want cimman rolls! Want BEANS!" To prove his point, he puts the Pillsbury Crescent Rolls back in the fridge and brings me a can of black beans from the cupboard.

I'm still feeling awfully friendly, so I think, Who am I to deny the child beans? and I proceed to make cinnamon rolls AND beans with cheese. Yes, I know it's a strange breakfast combination, but the child is requesting beans, for goodness sake! What am I going to do, say, "No, you must eat the unhealthy breakfast I make you!"?

When Asher wakes up I tell him, "I made you cinnamon rolls!" He says, "Yay!!! I love cinnamon rolls," and runs to the table. I get the rolls out, put them on a plate for him, giving him one more than I usually do because, well, I'm friendly today.

He looks at it for a moment and finally asks, "Can I make this a little more classier?"

"What?" I say.

"More classy. With more cinnamon and sugar on top." He looks at me like, DUH.

This is when Max chimes in with, "Beans all gone. Want cimman rolls!"

Yep. I'm getting frustrated.

"Why do you need a speed boat for land?" Asher questions me. "This is a joke," he adds.
I shrug and give him an, "I don't know."
"Why don't you just take a guess," he says, with an exasperated look on his face.
"So you can go fast?" I guess.
"Wrong. It's so If you want to watch Sesame Street, just watch it yourself!"
He busts up laughing, the cutest little six-year-old-who-thinks-he's-hilarious laugh I've ever heard.

Max chimes in, "No cimman rolls. Want BEANS!"

I give up.

The Hole

I have begun referring to the fitting room as "The Hole". I'm not sure everyone at my work appreciates that, but all the girls who work in the FR seem to think it's a "fitting" name. (<--Didn't even mean to do that. Haha, I kill myself!)  

Seriously, though, sometimes back there I want to hang myself with a hanger, just to pass the time and relieve the misery of standing back there all by myself.

The Hole

My view from The Hole

Do you know how many different ways you can arrange the numbers 0-8? I do.

I definitely didn't appreciate the morning shift while I had it. Husband's job has changed (yes, again), so he has been in training 8a-4p, which has left me with very few daycare options. (Thanks Jenny, Natalie, Andrew and Jon!) Now that I've used up my family, I've decided I have to go back to the night shift so Husband can take care of the kids while I'm at work. (We also share a car, so that will help with that, too.) When I started this whole working thing, I worked the evening shift, which includes closing the store.

Switching to the morning shift gave me anxiety, but after the very first day of clocking out at 2 PM, I was hooked. I also discovered that the morning shift had a lot more fun! Shipment comes every weekday morning, so I got to help shelve the merchandise and chat with the stock team. The day time customer service girl is downright hilarious, and I get to listen to her over the head set, so even when there aren't any customers, I'm not too bored.

Well let me tell you what. The night shift is B-O-R-I-N-G. Tuesday night I worked five hours (5-10pm) and I counted how many customers I received in that time.

FIVE. 5 customers in 5 hours, people!

And the head set? Boring as all hell. Not one word was spoken all night long between employees over that thing.

Tonight I go back to the Hole. Five hours is a very long time with no one to talk to.

I am open to entertainment suggestions. Ready, set, go! 

Support our school! (...and go broke)

Hey, remember when book fairs were awesome? You could beg $2 off your mom and bring home 3 books, an eraser, and a poster of seven kittens for you wall. At least that's how I remember it.

Asher had a parent-teacher conference today after school. He's only in Kindergarten, and he's way ahead of the curve because he's 6 1/2 (and has my genes). ;) I'm not going to lie to you, I was dragging my feet, feeling like it was a bit of a waste of time. After getting a strong, "Asher is amazing, Asher can do everything with flying colors, Asher is friends with everyone," I was feeling generous. Off we go to the book fair. I wasn't even feeling the panic of spending money, because MIL gave me $15 specifically for the book fair. I was feeling rich.

On the way in I swore that THIS TIME I wouldn't be buying gimmicky crap. THIS TIME I'm buying something educational! A good, old fashioned chapter book they can benefit from!

Ten minutes later, with a crease in my forehead (which, these days, is deeper than it used to be), I came to the realization that the book fair doesn't SELL anything educational. "Princess Cupcake Papers" and "The complete Ninja Lego Sticker Book", "The Zombie Interpreter Book" (<--which, btw, is the most obnoxious "talking" book I've ever heard - it makes "Zombie sounds" and then "interprets" them).

$26.00 later we left the building with two Lego Ninjago books (most of my house is Ninjago themed since Christmas)

& a book called "Aliens in Underpants" or something like that. Oh yeah, and three ridiculously frivolous pens with googly eyes.

Ah, well, at least they are happy.

What we didn't leave with? Any of the posters they were selling for $4.50/each, erasers shaped like Twizzlers licorice, or pens with tiny little crocs attached. (Yeah, those kind of crocs, not this kind.) I took a picture to prove it.

Croc-haters, we've reached an all-time low.

All I'm saying is when did "SUPPORT OUR SCHOOL!" turn into "GO BROKE & LEARN NOTHING!" ?!?

#GetFit with Us & Be a #memorialdayhottie this year!

There I was, tweeting. (The best part about Twitter is that you can always spy on other peoples' conversations.)

@AskDocG says to @ElenaWollborg something like, "I want to work out every day until Blissdom. You in?"

Being the nosy person that I am, I just went ahead and invited myself to their little workout party.

"I'm not going to Blissdom, but I want in!"

A matter of moments later, we had ourselves a little army of wanna-be-fit-sters, a hashtag, and a goal. We're each setting our own specifics for our fitness goal, but it is not based on weight - just fitness. And our goal date is 5/25/12. That's @ElenaWollborg's birthday (& Memorial Day weekend, btw).

 You know who states this better? Elena does, here: #GetFit so you feel like a #MemorialDayHottie
If you want in, go to her blog post and comment with your goals. They don't have to be anything like ours, just anything you want to accomplish between now and May 25th to make you a healthier person.


Remember this? Yeah, I made that commitment a month ago. I haven't done a thing with it. NOW it's time, and this time I've got fellow #getfit warriors to support me. :)

Every time you want to brag or just need a little push to get going, use the hashtags #GetFit or #MemorialDayHottie and we'll be right there to back you up and cheer you on.